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This isn't entirely true. As a hit it had been highly successful. Several very important people all got gunned down within seconds of each other, all in the same part of the city, all under the same cameras which had been recording the conference.

The disaster followed the hits. Chaos in the streets. An unknown gunship getting blown up by an unknown figure in an unknown exo-suit. The disaster had been from the assassin. Everything had been swift, clean, clinical.

Everything except that she had killed everyone -but- the one man she had thought she was there to kill.

Metropolis quickly disappears, another event to forget about in a long history of dark tasks done for nothing more than cash. The shooter sits amongst other civilians, lost within her own world and the confusion surrounding the hit. What had amounted to blacking out, or perhaps more like a post-traumatic stress disorder. She can barely remember what her own actions had been.

There had been a headache. One like she's now feeling, like a knife to the back of her skull. A feeling..of…

(No witnesses.)

Slowly she turns to stare at the passenger seated beside her. Moments later he's looking back at her, puzzled.

Then he's staring as well, his widened eyes drifting away from her face to follow the arm now held out against his neck. To the blade that she still holds, very nearly pinning him to the seat.

The first person to gasp meets a similar fate, another blade flicked across the narrow aisle of the coach to disappear halfway within the woman's throat.

The car nearly explodes in panic seconds later. The speed of the maglev train causes the cars to unpredictably rock and shift, making balance difficult and escape nearly impossible. Where would anyone escape -to?-

Blades soon switch to guns. One random murder turns into a complete and unprovoked massacre. Passengers of all ages and walks of life simply fall into the seats and the aisle connecting them, so many individual journeys ending with a momentary flash of light and a supersonic bang.

(No witnesses. No survivors.)

The formerly blue and white interior of the railcar is quickly slathered in heavy crimson graffiti, screams forever silenced two to three at a time. Thirty seconds is all it takes, transforming the once formerly pristine car into a gruesome mass grave.

Heavy footsteps take the woman toward the front of the car, ejecting the spent magazines from her sidearms as thin wisps of smoke continue to bleed out from their compensators. She's reloaded before reaching the sealed doors separating the ruined car from the rest of the train. Then she switches out pistols for explosive charges.